Battle Entre Énigmes
by madstoryteller999
Summary: Although Harry is acknowledged to be the main rival of the Malfoy heir, both Draco and Hermione know that there is no such hatred and sense of deadly competition as the one that exists between the two of them. Welcome to a battle between enigmas. Takes place second year, sticks to key points of canon (CoS) but with major tweaks; may turn into dramione as the characters get older.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"Nice big smile, Harry. Together, you and I rate the front page."

Mrs. Weasley swooned a little beside them, leaning heavily upon one of the many stacks of books in Flourish and Blotts for support. "Would you look at that! After all he has done for the Wizarding Community…and writing so many books…"

Hermione noted that the usually quite level-headed Weasley matriarch suddenly seemed uncharacteristically…ditzy, for lack of a better word. When she leveled a questioning glance at her other best friend, Ron flushed beet red in shame.

"Mum fancies him," he offered, in way of explanation.

She smiled slightly in response, though it was perhaps a little strained. Ron's answer had been a perfectly reasonable explanation—one she herself might have been sympathetic to if not for her sudden sudden change in heart. As typical, she had naturally read all of the course textbooks required for the following year over the summer, and thus had read all of Lockhart's books, excepting the autobiography "Magical Me" which he was currently campaigning.

Suffice to say, she had fallen as much in love as a human could do without ever actually having met the other concerned party. In his books, Lockhart had been a powerful, brave, and intelligent wizard, one who had used his superior abilities to help others and the wizarding community. It wasn't hard to imagine that he had embodied everything Hermione desired in her dream life partner, and why she had then proceeded to—for the first time in her life—deign to focus her attention on the opposite sex in _that _manner.

And yet, despite her admittedly obsessive fascination with the proclaimed Gilderoy Lockhart (the one that had existed previous to entering Flourish and Blotts, that is) and her depthless admiration and respect for him…she could not seem to reconcile the brave, intelligent figure that had been depicted there in his books with the vain, preening one who was standing here before her.

Which was why, behind the strained smile she currently wore, Hermione couldn't help feeling like such an idiot. This, she supposed, was the wonderful power of utter, inexorable disillusionment. Lockhart, like undoubtedly many others in the world, was clearly a fraud.

As she turned to leave, however, she was halted by a sudden hard, lean body shoving her out of the way, sending her hard onto the ground. Hermione immediately looked up with a glare, the scowl on her face only hardening further when she saw who it was.

"Know your place, mudblood," Draco sneered silkily, eying her position with a look of utter satisfaction, "at my feet."

"And know yours, Malfoy." Hermione retorted, "Lacking in compassion, warmth, and a sense of morality, you are subhuman. _Below me._"

As far as insults come, it was a rather fine one, in her opinion, and she was rather glad that she had an opponent who could fully appreciate it (as signified by Draco's frightening snarl in response). Not that either would ever be on the receiving end of it, but Harry would have taken at least thirty seconds to appreciate what she was saying to its full extent before suitably responding, and Ron would have floundered endlessly until he had turned crimson with frustration.

"Watch it, mudblood," Draco replied, silver eyes growing stormy, "Your muggle parents are here today, aren't they? It would be a shame if they were to….meet with an accident."

"Shut up, Malfoy," Hermione hissed in reply, her fist tightening around her wand. Pulling it out would be foolish, using it would be doubly moronic, and yet the temptation was still very much there.

"Make me."

They glared furiously at each other, the magnitude of their hatred, it seemed, giving the emotion tangibility. It took a couple of seconds for both of them to realize that it was not their hatred that had manifested itself, but raw magic, crackling with energy and power.

Although Harry was universally acknowledged to be the rival of the Malfoy heir, both Draco and Hermione knew that there was no such hatred and sense of deadly competition as the one that existed between the two of them. It had been silently acknowledged between them that while Draco would hound after Harry and entertain his fellow Slytherins by taunting him publically, Hermione and he would fight the true battle behind the scenes, matching wits, power, and ambition.

The reason for such a rivalry? It all simply came down to the fact that Hermione and Draco were perhaps too similar to not conflict so violently. Harry was a powerful and intelligent wizard, undoubtedly, but Draco operated on another level—one of uncompromising, ruthless logic, instinctive talent, frightening knowledge, and carefully controlled but potent power—one which only Hermione was home to as well. For that was, Hermione had discovered, the foundation of rivalry. In order to truly despise and hate another entity with one's entire being, one not only had to understand that person first, but also see their own reflection in them.

And Hermione certainly did see herself in Draco.

"We need to calm down," Hermione whispered furiously, as their magic only became more wild and untamed, unleashed by their normally rigid control, "or something is going to blow up."

"Let it," Draco said, baring his teeth in a savage smile.

As their anger and magic began to threaten serious damage within the popular bookstore, several sensitive members of the wizarding community started shivering and looked their way, sensing the source of the magic surge. One of them, she noticed, was Harry himself.

Deciding that she had to act fast before anyone was hurt, Hermione turned her attention away from Draco—an action she knew would infuriate him endlessly, but distract him from an impending duel—and looked at Lockhart, who was still beaming blindingly and signing books with a hearty laugh.

Lividity making his face go pale, Draco turned to look at what had dared steal her attention. Hermione watched in satisfaction as the livid fury painted violently across his face slowly declined into an expression of utter disdain and condescension. Hermione took the time gazing at Lockhart to distract herself as well, her previous emotions of self-disgust overcoming her once more.

"He preens like a peacock," Hermione commented, oblivious to the fact that the small sneer on her face was near identical to the one on Draco's.

"Do not think that I am unaware of your manipulations, Granger," Draco replied, raising brow, though he did not turn to look at her, "But you are correct. It seems that under the guidance of Dumbledore, Hogwarts truly is going to the dogs."

Hermione scowled, displeased by the fact that her brilliant plan had been misconstrued to suit his purposes. "If I may recall correctly, Mr. Malfoy, your father, being on the school's board of governors, must have approved of him."

"Unfortunately," Draco offered smoothly, "despite his vast power and influence, my father was overruled. It appears that even the Malfoy name is not enough to trump the power of middle-aged love-sick witches."

"What a sad time it is," Hermione retorted.

"I suspect that money, power, and influence shall never be able to hold its weight against the frivolous fancies of women, Ms. Granger, no matter the time or age" Draco stated dryly, "Perhaps your only redeeming quality is that, at this moment, you are not one among the numerous majority of your gender."

Hermione's fury threatened to rise again, but she was interrupted—luckily—by the arrival of Harry.

"Malfoy!" he growled, green eyes seeming to glow. Harry then looked at her with concern, his eyes focusing particularly at how they were only a couple of inches apart.

"Bet you loved that, didn't you Potter?" Draco jeered, distracting Harry's attention from analyzing their close proximity. "Harry Potter, it seems, can't even go into a book-shop without making the front page!"

"Leave him alone!" Ginny shouted, coming up behind Harry in his defense. Her red hair swung violently in response to the sudden lurch forward, and her freckled, pretty face reddened in anger.

"Well, Potter, you've got yourself a girlfriend," Draco commented silkily, his sharp eyes picking up on the unhealthy adoration the youngest Weasley held for the Boy-Who Lived.

"The profound intelligence featured in your remarks really does astound me, Malfoy," Hermione cut in sarcastically. It was true, however; it seemed that she and Draco, though certain insults and arguments were deemed childish between the two of them when truly angry, generally fought on a level that was superior to the one that he argued with Harry on.

"Well, Granger," Draco replied with a chilling smirk, "in order to fight the fool, one must play the fool. If I were to argue with him as I argue with you, I would have to wait a decent half an hour for him to reply back appropriately."

"Don't underestimate Harry's intelligence," Hermione snapped, angry on her best friend's behalf. Harry was fairly smart, and if he even did lack in that department, he more than made up for it with his inhuman amount of intuition. Though, admittedly, he did choose to apply both attributes selectively.

"And don't overestimate yours." Draco replied, eyes frigid, "You might have been _lucky _enough to tie with me so far, Granger, but that will change soon."

"You're right, it will change," Hermione replied haughtily, "and it will be in my favor." Little did she know that with her chin angled upwards, her eye lids disdainfully at half mast, and her voice cool and unemotional, she represented the very epitome of a pureblood heir. The resemblance was not lost upon the actual pureblood heir in front of her, causing the hatred in Draco's glare to increase exponentially.

"I will destroy you, mudblood," Draco snarled, his arm reaching down to clutch her collar and pull her up to his height. Harry and Ginny, the only two people who noticed what was happening in the chaos that was Flourish and Blotts, leaped forward to stop him, but were stopped by the barrier Draco had wandlessly erected.

Although her feet were dangling above the ground a decent half a foot, and the grip on her collar was fair near choking her, Hermione granted him a beatific smile while simultaneously working at breaking down the barrier he had placed. "I would like to see you try. Are you willing to get your hands dirty, Mr. Malfoy? Because I will not lie patiently in wait for someone who threatens to obliterate my very existence. Will you lower yourself to the level of a _mudblood_ to finish me off?"

Silver eyes blazing, amber eyes mocking, the two glanced at each other, locked in their own battle and ignorant of the outside world. That is, until Hermione finally succeeded in breaking down the barrier and Harry and Ginny burst in, Ron trailing behind as he too had caught sight of the predicament his best friend was in.

"Potter, Weasley, she-Weasley," Draco sneered in welcome, though his gaze never left Hermione's. "You broke down the barrier."

"Let her go, Malfoy!" Ron hollered above the bustle of the shrieking witches around him. He began to pull out his wand, and Hermione knew then that she had to interfere.

"Put me down," Hermione demanded softly. "Or I'll break something else in addition to your barrier." Tendrils of magic wrapped themselves around his hands threateningly, and she kept her gaze locked with his, daring him to go against her wishes. With a smirk, Draco abruptly dropped her, causing her to almost curse out loud as she barely recovered her balance in time.

Before she could stop him, Ron attempted to lunge forward in retribution, but was stopped by another voice entering the conversation. "Mr. Weasley, I do hope that you have no intention of pawing your filthy hands at my son. I am not sure if I could ever get the dirt off of him, and then where would I be?"

A tall man, clearly from whom Draco had gotten his height, walked into sight. Cold grey eyes—which while Hermione noted were surely impressive in their color and beauty, lacked the chilling intelligence and sharpness of their descendant's silver ones—looked disdainfully out of a pale, pointed face. Lucius Malfoy stood stiffly, bedecked in expensive robes of black and deep red silk, smelling sharply of some perfumed scent that stung Hermione's nose, and clutching harshly at a cane with an ornate silver serpent head with glittering emerald eyes.

"Harry Potter," the senior Malfoy stated slowly, his eyes fixing upon the mark that defined the Boy-Who-Lived, "We meet at last. Forgive me, your scar is legend."

"As is," Draco added boredly. "the wizard who gave it him." He appeared to be robotically delivering lines from some invisible script.

"Right as always, Draco," Lucius praised in a monotone, though he did not even turn to face his son as he offered this compliment. Hermione turned to glance at Draco, analyzing his response. Draco didn't seem in the least concerned about what his father thought of him, nor what he did around him; he simply seemed…bored.

For all his acting and bragging the previous year, anyone would have thought that the father spoiled his son, and thus controlled him through bribery. And yet it appeared that it had been just that: acting; putting on a show, perhaps, to lower the defenses of others through falsely perceived weakness. Although Hermione had been skeptical of such a dynamic after ascertaining the will power and intelligence of the Malfoy heir, she had been inclined to accept that, at the very least, the senior Malfoy commanded some respect from the younger. But it seemed that even that was just as unlikely, given the look of sheer callousness and detachment on Draco's face.

"_Voldemort_," Harry stressed, and Hermione had to admit that she enjoyed the subsequent flinch from the older man, "killed my parents. If that makes him legendary, then I doubt I want my scar among your collection of legends."

"Well, Mr. Potter, you are undoubtedly either very brave," Lucius recovered smoothly, "or very _foolish _to be using such a…feared name."

Hermione found this fine time to step in and play the role of the Boy-Who-Lived's best friend. "Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself," Hermione parroted, as was expected from a paragon of the light's virtues.

It was a persona, she had quickly realized, that would often be expected of her. While there would always be Hermione and Harry—two best friends independent of the ugly world that existed around them— in the larger picture, there would also have to be the Boy-Who-Lived and his warrior, his strategist, his tool, someone to support him through all his battles. And this was a role she would play very well, if only to save and protect her best friend.

Muggleborn witch, brave, self-sacrificing, and irrevocably light. A darker part of her wondered what people would do if they knew how close she had been to entering Slytherin. She would have been the first muggle-born in centuries, the last having committed suicide within his first year itself.

They called her brave, and yet she wondered who she would have been if she had been braver and pursued her ambition instead of keeping it tamed and restricted as she now did.

Unerringly, her eyes fell upon Draco.

"You must be Hermione Granger," Lucius drawled, his voice barely keeping secret the disgust directed towards her muggle last name. "The…_muggleborn_ tied with my son at Hogwarts for first. I have been assured by the school governors that the both of you are two of the most gifted Hogwarts has ever seen. They plan and scheme about you and my son. They seem to be under the belief that you will go on to do great things together in the wizarding world."

The word 'great' was said with great disdain. The word 'together' with even more.

Hermione allowed an uncharacteristic smirk (uncharacteristic to all but Draco) to decorate her face as she went straight for the metaphorical elephant in the room. "That we will all do great things is unquestionable, Mr. Malfoy. The real question is that when we are doing our great things, will we be on the same side, let alone together?"

Her gaze had moved mid-sentence to lock with Draco's. For that was the true question, really. Perhaps it was foolish to give oneself airs, but she did know that she and Draco would grow up to be powerful, and that they—given their already radical political standings—would play important roles in coming events if Voldemort were truly to return like Harry predicted. What would happen when the governors' predicted 'greatness' was pitted against itself? Would circumstances even reach that state? For it was in neither of their personalities to bend to anything other than their own will powers.

"I do dislike the idea of being a subordinate," Draco commented absently, as if listening to Hermione's thoughts.

Realization hit her, and she instantly recoiled, averting her gaze. Legimency! He had been reading her thoughts while they had made eye contact! Had he done that the entire time? Hermione gritted her teeth violently, wanting to hit something very badly. Glancing around the bookstore, she decided to purchase some books on Occulemency.

"Children," Mr. Weasley said, coming up behind them, "it's getting pretty rowdy in here. Let's head outside and wait for Molly there."

"Mr. Weasley," Lucius greeted silkily. The equally tall red-headed man froze, turning to look slowly at the figure he had previously missed.

"Lucius," Mr. Weasley replied, his face strangely blank. He adjusted his glasses slightly, before proceeding to gaze almost analytically at the man before him.

The senior Malfoy smiled nastily. "Busy time at the Ministry, Arthur, all those extra raids? I do hope they're paying you overtime. Though judging by the state of your children's clothing, I'd dare say not. What's the use in being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"

Hermione paled with anger on behalf of the Weasleys. Ron and Ginny were seething beside her, but—despite the cruel insults leveled at him—Mr. Weasley stood tall and replied with pride and dignity: "It is a shame, that for all your supposed purity and superior knowledge, Malfoy, you cannot comprehend what truly disgraces a wizard's name."

"We clearly share different opinions on the matter," Lucius replied silkily, "After all, it was my belief that the Weasleys could sink no lower. And yet you have surprised me again, Arthur. Consorting with _muggles _and _mudbloods_."

Hermione would swear later that she had heard a tangible snap when Mr. Weasley finally lost control of his temper and lunged forward. It seemed an eternity lasted between the moment in which the the elder Weasley drew his arm back and the moment in which the blow connected, sending the refined pureblood to the floor, pale hair in complete disarray and blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

Ginny had dropped the cauldron containing her books in shock, the resounding clang of metal against wood silencing the entire store. Books scattered across the floor, and Lucius reached to pick one up.

"Second hand copy," Lucius goaded, holding it with two fingers as though it were tainted by some unspeakable substance, "How _do _you come home to your wife every night and reconcile your ineptitude to her? She was a Prewett, wasn't she? She must have gone from riches to rags after marrying you."

Mr. Weasley moved forward again, but Mrs. Weasley herself, hearing the racket, had come over and now placed a restraining hand on her husband's arm.

"I am happy and in love; Arthur has been the perfect spouse and owes me nothing," Mrs. Weasley replied frigidly, "How do you reconcile _your_ insufficiency as a decent husband to your wife? Have you ever offered her anything of substance, other than your petty family heirlooms?"

"Now, now," Draco interjected coolly, silver eyes cutting, "You make my mother sound like a tragic figure. I assure you, when she married my father, two parties benefitted from the union. I believe my mother even smiled at the wedding. And of course, their marriage produced me."

"To the world's eternal regret," Hermione replied, just as coldly.

Draco focused his intense gaze on her, a humorless smirk pulling at his lips. "Perhaps."

With a superior sneer, the senior Malfoy leaned on his cane to pull himself, returning the book back to Ginny's cauldron, before gathering the others swiftly and returning them as well. At such unusual behavior, Hermione analyzed him closely, watching suspiciously as he slipped a book she had not seen in Ginny's possession previously into the cauldron as well. It looked like a diary.

When she looked away, she felt Draco's gaze burning her, urging her silently to look his way. She fought for a while, before finally relenting, amber locking with silver once again.

'What?' she wanted to ask, 'What is it now?'

Silver eyes burned into her harshly, and the threat from before rang in her mind.

_I will destroy you, mudblood_.

**Hello folks! If you enjoyed this and want more or have any criticisms to make my writing better, please review :) madstoryteller999**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Hermione had spent the rest of the summer practicing Occulemency. Unfortunately, however, she had no way of knowing if what she had practiced was actually effective.

The books had taught her to create a mental visual that would contain her memories while simultaneously disguising and protecting them from external forces. They had offered a mental 'library' as a possible solution, and the idea, she had to admit, had tempted her for a while. If she could categorize her memories under the Dewey Decimal System (paired, of course, with other defenses as well), her mind would be virtually impenetrable at the hands of any prejudiced purebloods; but then she had realized that while they were certainly her most probable enemies, she couldn't rule out ever being attacked by other muggleborns and half-bloods.

Other books offered using natural forces, such as wind or water, to carry along memories and secrets. However, while the invader would never be able to make sense of the person's mind, Hermione figured that the owner of the mind too would be unable to find anything efficiently. Thus, she decided upon something universally encoded that only she knew the key to.

Grinning as she packed her trunk with all her new robes and supplies, Hermione looked at the book on advanced encryption that she had borrowed from the library. Certainly, a person with an extraordinary amount of intelligence would be able to decode her memories—though it would certainly take a long time if one did not know the encryption key, pureblood or muggleborn—but even then, she had erected key signatures that would only allow her own magic signature to enter and access those memories.

Those with foreign magic (not her own) who had managed to decipher her encryptions would immediately be faced with the full impact of her raw power and transported to a plane she had created in her mind. She called it Tartarus, after the Greek version of hell: it was dark, alternately frigid cold and burning hot, and like Dante Aligheri's inferno, consisted of several levels which got exceedingly worse as the invader proceeded downwards in search of escape.

Sometimes, Hermione truly was afraid of her own mind.

"Hermione, love," she heard her mother call from downstairs, "You have to come down soon if you plan on eating breakfast before you leave!"

"I'll be down in a couple of seconds, mum," Hermione replied, just finishing up the last of her packing, "I'm bringing the trunk down now."

"Do you need any help?" her father asked from outside her room. He was currently carrying the dirty laundry to the washing machine.

"I'll be fine," Hermione said with a smile. Despite being rather short for a twelve year old, at five feet and one and half inches—at least compared to the other boys her age; she had only had Harry, Ron, and Draco to judge by so far, all of whom were already five feet and six inches or seven inches tall—she made up for the height, and lack of strength, by pure determination. As she wasn't quite able to carry the trunk all the way down the stairs, and she certainly couldn't use wandless magic in the house in front of her parents, she resorted to dragging it to the kitchen.

"Pancakes?" Hermione's mother asked, already at the stove.

Hermione nodded in acquiescence. When the pancakes were set before her a couple of minutes later, she applied syrup in a diagonal pattern that reached all sectors, before neatly slicing the pancakes into equal eighths.

As she chewed on her first bite, she contemplated the year ahead of her.

* * *

"Where the hell are they?" Hermione said aloud to herself, frustration coloring her tone. Generally, Hermione was refined enough to refrain from cursing, but when her best friends were mysteriously missing…

She paced down the train, searching each and every compartment. They had told her in their letters that they would meet her in front of the Hogwarts Express ten minutes before departure time, and indeed, she had seen Ginny, Fred, George, and Percy get on the train around that time, but Harry and Ron had been curiously absent among the rest of the Weasleys.

Hermione pulled another door open, mouth posed to interrogate the inmates of yet another compartment. However, when she saw the scene before her—an embracing couple, getting quite fervidly involved in their reunion—she immediately slammed it shut, her face reddening slightly despite her eye roll of disgust.

"Stupid sixth years," Hermione hissed, moving towards the next compartment. It appeared that at Hogwarts, sixth year, like clockwork, was the year in which the students became enslaved to their hormones. She couldn't even count on one hand, let alone two, the number of embracing couples she had stumbled upon while searching for books in the library last year. All had been sixth years; if the seventh years were doing anything, they at least had the good sense to not get caught. It was the experience born from one previous year of mistakes and blunders, Hermione supposed.

Pulling open another compartment door with crossed fingers—she had no desire of stumbling upon another couple—she gave a sigh of relief when she recognized Neville sitting beside Seamus and Dean.

"H-hello Hermione," Neville greeted nervously, holding his toad Trevor with gentle hands. Dean and Seamus both gave her a quick nod of acknowledgement before returning to their game of exploding snaps.

"Have any of you seen Harry or Ron?" Hermione asked. Really, where had those two idiots gone?

"Can't say I have," Seamus muttered. Dean too gave a head shake in the negative.

Hermione looked expectantly at Neville.

"I haven't either, Hermione," Neville stuttered apologetically, "But I'll tell you if I see them."

"Thank you, Neville," she replied with a kind, but fake, smile. Worry was slowly beginning to overcome her. She nodded her goodbyes to Seamus and Dean, before exiting the compartment and moving to the next compartment.

She regretted opening the door to this compartment as well, though for different reasons than the previous one.

"Well, well, well," an angelic voice crooned, "If it isn't the mudblood without her lackeys."

"Parkinson," Hermione greeted benevolently.

She surveyed the compartment with narrowed eyes. On the left, sat Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, and Zabini; the first two were immersed deeply in what appeared to be a hole in one of their scarves, while the latter two glanced at her with dark, unreadable eyes, surveying her just as she surveyed them. On the right, sat Parkinson, legs crossed and already in uniform, with Daphne Greengrass on one side of her, and the other side curiously vacant. Distantly, Hermione wondered where the proclaimed king of Slytherin was.

"What do you want, Granger?" the blonde heiress hissed viciously. Hermione had to admit, it was a spectacularly pretty face, one that could have belonged to a porcelain doll; such a shame that it housed such a demonic personality. Then again, who was she to judge, when she herself had recreated hell in her head?

"I seemed to have misplaced something, and was merely looking for it," Hermione answered airily, already moving toward the exit. "I apologize for interrupting."

However, before her hand even reached the handle, the compartment door slid open once more, revealing the last person Hermione had wanted to see.

"Mudblood," Draco drawled, silver eyes filled with cruel delight as he entered the compartment, "fancy meeting you here."

"Malfoy," Hermione answered dryly, "what a pleasure. Unfortunately, I was just leaving. If you would excuse me."

A hand, not Draco's, stopped her from leaving. Hermione's eyes flew wide with fury, and she turned immediately to see whose hand was crushing her wrist to the point of agonizing pain.

"You haven't been dismissed, mudblood," Zabini growled. His voice was surprisingly low for a second year, and if Hermione had been anyone else, she probably would have been intimidated.

"Get your hands off of me," Hermione demanded in a low monotone. She allowed her magic to escape from her unbending control, but a sudden surge of familiar magic in the room momentarily distracted her.

"Hands off, Blaise," Draco ordered emotionlessly. Hermione could see the inferno raging in his eyes. It seemed that he was not pleased with anyone other than himself harming her. How touching.

Zabini immediately released her and Hermione leveled him with a Slytherin-worthy sneer before moving towards the door once more.

"Wait a minute, Granger," Draco interrupted silkily, "As Blaise correctly brought to your attention, I have not allowed you to leave yet."

"And you're going to stop me?" Hermione challenged, allowing her own magic to come to the surface once more. Her frizzy hair seemed to become charged, gaining a life of its own.

Draco smirked, and though his face remained unchanged, he used whatever anger he had disguised to fuel a sudden frightening flow of crackling energy, volatile and almost radioactive in its fluctuating instability.

"One step out that door," Draco whispered, moving close to deliver the words near her ear, "and I'll release my control. Imagine how many poor, innocent people will get hurt. And it would all be because of _you_."

Greengrass, Crabbe, and Goyle—unable to sense the magical battle of wills occurring in the room—glanced with puzzlement at the sudden tense forms of Parkinson, Zabini, and Nott.

There was a pause, before Hermione suddenly laughed, a cynical, joyless sound that would have horrified her friends. "Very well, Malfoy. You have my attention."

Draco smirked once more, pulling his magic under control. However, before it had fully returned, Hermione stepped forward suddenly and pulled Draco close to her, allowing him to see the fury in her eyes.

"Do that again," Hermione said softly— and her eyes showed him that she was no longer simply playing the game that they had mutually constructed out of boredom, but was deadly serious—"and I will kill you."

"As if you could," Draco returned smoothly, "but, seeing as I have no desire to dirty my hands with blood at the moment, including the filthy blood of the numerous mudbloods on this train, I will temporarily indulge you."

Hermione rolled her eyes at Draco's flowery bravado. It was as though he had grown up learning to speak from the villains of Shakespeare's plays.

"Well, let's get this over with. What do you want?" she urged.

"Don't talk to him that way!" Parkinson threatened melodiously. Raising an eyebrow, Hermione felt as though she were suffering from a perverted form of déjà vu.

"Well, Malfoy, looks like you've got yourself a girlfriend," Hermione jeered, deepening her voice to comically imitate Draco.

She saw the pale hand a second too late, and winced a second later when it connected with her face. Pansy Parkinson heaved heavily, breathing in and out as if she had run a marathon.

A second later, the golden-haired heiress found herself suspended two feet in the air against one of the compartment walls.

"I generally make it a rule not to hit girls," Hermione drawled, "but you really do tempt me, Parkinson."

"You talk about yourself like you're not one," Nott quietly pointed out, finally looking up from his book.

"She has the essential parts, no doubt," Draco spoke for her, silver eyes glinting, "but I suspect that with all the time she spends with Potter and Weasley, she's lost all other female sensibilities."

Hermione turned to glare at him. It was true though; sometimes she wondered if the only thing that reminded Harry and Ron that she was a girl was her longer hair. In retrospect, though, was that such a bad thing? The connotation of being a female within the archaic wizarding world wasn't exactly a favorable one. And it wasn't like she was interested in establishing her sexual identity at age twelve.

She shrugged her shoulders, allowed Parkinson to drop to the floor, before focusing her attention on Draco once more. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

He glanced at her hard for one second, before reaching into the voluminous folds of his Hogwarts cloak to full out a crisp, large envelope. "My father was instructed by his fellow board governors to deliver this to you and me. It concerns both of us, and apparently cannot be opened without both of us present."

"The board of governors," Hermione repeated, eyes narrowed. "What business do they have with us?"

"In light of father's recent speech," Draco said coldly, "I have a vague idea."

_They plan and scheme about the both of you; they seem to be under the belief that you will go on to do great things together in the wizarding world_

"Damn," Hermione hissed, "they should stop their incessant meddling and take care that idiots like Lockhart don't get positions at Hogwarts."

"Regardless," Draco intoned, feigning boredom, "The envelope must be opened eventually."

"I'll meet you at the library after the Ceremony and sorting of the first years," Hermione replied swiftly, and then—with a glance at the other members within the compartment—added emphatically, "_without _company."

"Keep Potter and Weasley away, and you have yourself a deal, mudblood," the Slytherin bargained.

"Naturally." Hermione returned, "I would never dream of being hypocritical."

Draco gazed intensely at her. When Hermione felt a sudden shove against her mental barriers, she immediately pushed back.

He slowly pulled back, sending her a sneer. "Impressive, mudblood. Two months from nothing but books, undoubtedly, and you already know Occulemency. I wonder, though, how strong can your barriers be without having ever been tested?"

Hermione snarled, before turning on her heel and exiting the compartment. She gave him a mock wave as she left, ignoring the low chuckles that followed her from behind.

* * *

Hermione sat impatiently at the Gryffindor table, craning her neck in desperate search of Harry and Ron. She hadn't seen them get on the train, she hadn't seen them in the train, she hadn't seen them get off the train, and even now, she simply couldn't find them.

But one could be assured, that when Hermione did, there would be blood.

"First years!" Professor McGonagall announced, gesturing the eleven year olds to proceed down the center of the hall. The first year students, many of whom—Hermione noted with a grimace—towered above her, looked around the Great Hall in awe, whispering and chattering among themselves.

With a flourish of his pale blue sleeve, Professor Dumbledore conjured the Sorting Hat and placed it on the stool. The entire school waited in silence, waiting for the Sorting Hat to give its annual song of welcome.

With a sudden snap, the raggedy crooked hat became erect, one of its many tears opening further to serve as a mouth. It took one ancient, rattling inhalation of breath, and then proceeded to sing its song:

"_Thousands, and thousands of years ago_

_When I was but a wee idea in a wee wizard's head_

_There existed four particular magical individuals_

_Who ruled with education in oppressive powers' stead._

_For their influence as teachers was infinitely stronger_

_Than any cruel tyrant's could ever hope to be_

_Influencing and molding the minds of the younger generations_

_They impressed upon them and chose what they were to see._

_Sad though it may be, such is the power of educators, _

_A power that is absolute, all-consuming, and thus corruptible_

_For each served a higher power: bravery, wisdom, loyalty, and ambition_

_And each believed their respective masters to be infallible._

_So when Slytherin and Gryffindor inevitably came to blows,_

_When ambition and bravery caused the two dear friends to part,_

_A great divide was subsequently created, _

_Disallowing the two qualities to coexist in one heart._

_Hence, the foolishness of those four individuals_

_And the creation of me, the renowned Sorting Hat with my annual spiels_

_Cemented this separation of the four valued qualities_

_And forevermore sundered the wholeness of Hogwart's ideals._

_Because when you put me on your young heads_

_And I tell you where you ought to be_

_You are encouraged to destroy all other qualities that you possess_

_And develop only those declared important by me._

_Hufflepuff, the just and loyal_

_Gryffindor, the brave at heart_

_Ravenclaw, the wise and witty_

_And Slytherin, the ambitious and cunning, ridiculed for what they are not._

_Such divisions have been created,_

_The legacy of a thousand year old argument, _

_Is it possible to hate one's existence?_

_For I find myself in this curious predicament._

_But do not fear! I will place myself on your heads many a time more!_

_I shall continue my prescribed job, as I cannot quit_

_But keep in mind my warning words, and heed them well_

_For true greatness cannot be born without cunning, bravery, determination, _and _wit._

The entire school sat in deafening silence. Hermione too, had to prevent herself from allowing her jaw to drop. Was the hat even allowed to do that? To go against the entire concept of sorting…at the _sorting ceremony_? Granted, many of its statements had been painfully true, but judging by the horrified faces of several of the elder members of the staff, it had certainly gone against numerous centuries of Hogwarts tradition.

In every single history book, including _Hogwarts: A History_, the sorting of the students was known to be what defined Hogwarts, what distinguished it from the other Wizarding schools, even if, perhaps, as the hat suggested, it was ultimately to the school's detriment. Nevertheless, Hermione was slightly puzzled as to how to react.

Professor McGonagall, having finally recovered herself, hastily announced, "Let the sorting commence!" And after a short hesitation, the first years proceed to the stool and were sorted one by one.

"Creevey, Collin."

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Hermione clapped politely, rolling her eyes at the obscene roaring from several enthusiastic classmates. As more and more students were sorted, she began zoning out slightly. However, her attention was immediately seized once more when she caught sight of a pale blonde gracefully dancing to the sorting hat. Were those…_radishes _on her earrings?

"Lovegood, Luna."

"RAVENCLAW!"

Hermione observed as several others were sorted, much to the happiness of their respective houses, until finally it was Ginny waiting in front of the sorting hat. As luck would have it, she was last of the year.

"Weasley, Ginevra."

Ginny moved confidently to the hat, but hesitated at the last step, her gaze searching the crowd for her brothers. Fred and George hollered and whooped their support, while Percy simply gave an encouraging nod. It seemed not to be enough, however, as frantically, brown eyes searched for those of her last sibling, and landed on Hermione instead.

Taking it upon herself to act in place of her brother, Hermione offered Ginny the most heart-warming smile she could, hoping it relayed the message that she herself wished she could have heard at her own sorting.

_Wherever you go…wherever you are sorted…I accept you._

She must have transmitted something of substance, for Ginny then granted her with a glowing smile in response before she took the last step and sat on the stool.

The sorting of the last student was always a tense one. For some, it signified the start of another year. For the majority of the others, however, it signaled the moment after which food would be served. Regardless, it was fair to say that every single student and faculty member was paying attention at that moment.

Hermione watched as Ginny paled, the sorting hat having appeared to have reached its decision. But the the old hat did not open its mouth until she had nodded hesitantly in acceptance of her fate.

"SLYTHERIN!"

For the second time that day, the hall went silent. The expectant joy on Fred and George's face melted away like some horrific painting set on fire, and Percy dropped the silver goblet in his hand with a loud clang, watching blankly as it rolled off the table and toward the Hufflepuffs. The Gryffindors as a whole seemed to have suffered from some sort of heart attack.

The Slytherins, on the other hand, were jeering and whooping, though it was more mocking than joyful. "We got a Weasley," Flint hollered, "but at least she's got Prewett blood in her!"

Hermione scrutinized their reactions. It appeared that while the Weasleys were considered blood traitors, the fact that Ginny technically had Prewett blood in her from her mother's side—the Prewetts being an elite pureblood family that had remained neutral for centuries (despite its recent tendency to favor the light)—was enough to make her one of their own.

Scared, Ginny immediately looked at her brothers, and recoiled when she saw the horrified expressions on their faces. Hesitantly, she then looked at Hermione. Although it felt like a strained grimace, Hermione tried to smile at Ginny, but still conveyed her unrelenting acceptance through her eyes and her firm nod.

"Go," Hermione whispered aloud, "go to your house."

Ginny walked on shaky legs, but back straight, to the Slytherin table, taking a seat next to another one of her classmates.

At this point, Dumbledore finally stood up and, with a grand flourish, signaled the arrival of the food. "Please, commence eating and let us enjoy this meal as another school year begins!"

"And what an interesting year it shall be," Hermione muttered, spearing a piece of potato.

**I admit, my song-writing skills are clearly not of the highest caliber, so I apologize if I grated anyone's ears with my convoluted rhyming attempts. For any thoughts, comments, criticisms, or expressions of appreciation (I will certainly accept those), please review :) madstoryteller999**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"I am here, Malfoy," Hermione muttered, glaring at the blonde who had yet to lift his head from his book. He sat at one of the wooden desks, his legs outstretched and resting rudely on the surface of the desk.

"Mudblood," Draco greeted cordially, a cruel smirk dancing on his lips. He gestured grandly for Hermione to take a seat across from him. She sat down with a thump.

Draco pulled out the envelope, and proceeded to bite slightly on his finger, releasing some blood. "The board placed an enchantment on the envelope that allows it to be opened only when in contact with both of our bloods."

"Blood magic?" Hermione questioned skeptically, "Isn't that banned by the ministry?"

Draco smirked. "The Hogwarts school board has historically been represented by the ruling pureblood families in the United Kingdom. I wouldn't be surprised if there were only one or two muggleborns or half-bloods on the council, and that too, only to assuage the wizarding community of not being prejudiced. Nevertheless, I would assume—given their heritages and positions in society—that they believe themselves to be above the law."

"Most of the elite pureblood families are…"—Hermione hesitated to use the word, feeling that it overly simplified matters that were much too complex—"_dark_? Or have an affinity towards dark magic?"

"It is amazing how such an 'intelligent' individual can be so utterly naïve," Draco drawled, silver eyes glinting. "Listen, mudblood, and listen well, as your deluded misconceptions have begun to irritate me. Blood magic was never simply restricted to the Dark Arts. Many 'light' wizards and witches support it too. Like all magic, it can be used both to do harm as well as to heal. Unfortunately, however, the ministry chooses to remain ignorant of that, taken as it is by Dumbledore and his propaganda."

"I see," Hermione said slowly, though she was still taking in the information she had just received. She bit her finger, releasing some blood, and rubbed it on the envelope, near where Draco had rubbed his own finger.

"Would you look at that," Hermione mocked, examining the imprints left behind, "my blood is just as red as yours. Hard to imagine, given all the 'mud' it contains, isn't it?"

"Shut your mouth," Draco snapped softly, watching as the envelope burned away, leaving behind a single, pristine letter.

Both leaned in to read it.

_Dear Ms. Granger and Mr. Malfoy,_

As is our duty, it is constantly in the interests of the school's board of governors that we promote the excellence of Hogwarts. At times, this ancient school has been termed archaic and backwards in its teachings, but we now aspire to demonstrate that Britain's school of magic is capable of producing exemplary students who can contribute with unparalleled results in a modern world…through the teachings of the old. We choose to enact Locus Tirocinium, a motion detailed in Section 1075, Paragraph III of the Founders' Guidelines. The two of you will be apprenticed to Claudius Ptolemy, while simultaneously attending your Hogwarts classes. You will be expected to immerse yourself in his teachings and learn in the classical style as the greatest wizards and witches of Britain did in the past: Merlin, Morgan le Fay, Nicholas Flamel, Queen Maeve, Cliodne, and naturally, the four founders themselves. We anxiously await the results.

_Regards,_

_Nathaniel Phosphor _

_Head of Hogwarts School Board of Governors_

_Post Script_ – It should be noted that Mr. Ptolemy has a curious aversion for those of the female gender. We are sure, however, that you two will manage to find a solution. Further details will be sent shortly. These extra lessons will occur at a private hall within Hogwarts.

"A curious aversion for the female gender." Hermione repeated out loud, blinking slowly.

"Your problem," Draco returned nonchalantly, but his silver eyes glinted darkly. "Are they able to force us to do this, mudblood?"

She reached up and pulled out a book from a shelf just a couple of feet behind them. It was rather convenient that they had taken a seat near the section containing the original Founders' texts. And extraordinarily coincidental, Hermione noted, gazing harshly at Draco. "If it truly is a motion in this manuscript, then yes,"—she paged quickly through the book before stopping on one section—"Locus Tirocinium, the passage of apprenticeship. The school board of governors is allowed to command students of exceptional potential to undergo an apprenticeship in order to nurture their talents and skills. So…unless we wish to be expelled, we will be subject to this apprenticeship."

"Pleasant," Draco mocked with a grimace. "I will be forced to spend time with you."

"And I with you," Hermione retorted. "In any case, I am determined to excel at whatever it is they teach me. I couldn't care less as to why they are offering this opportunity, but I have heard of Claudius Ptolemy—though he is rather cloaked in mystery—and I know enough of him to be pleased at such a chance for higher learning."

"It is not that I am displeased with the opportunity, mudblood, merely that I dislike being told what to do," the Slytherin said smoothly, "Claudius Ptolemy, among pureblood circles, is regarded as an eccentric but dangerous wizard who has for all intents and purposes chosen to abandon sophisticated wizarding society in exchange for travelling around the world like some depraved heathen—a rather poor state of affairs for a man who is believed to be the descendant of Greek alchemist Paracelsus. Nevertheless, he must possess an impressive extent of knowledge if the school board is interested in him. Though, I do wonder why _he _would agree to teach two teenagers at Hogwarts."

Hermione leaned back in her chair, contemplating the letter before her. "Regardless of his motivations, what is with this aversion to girls? How exactly am I supposed to _hide _something like that? I am not taking any potions—"

"Relax, mudblood," Draco cut in coldly, "I am sure a superficial disguise would suffice. Charm that hair to be shorter, put on a boy's uniform, and I doubt anyone will be able to tell a difference. Luckily, you are an underdeveloped twelve year old, so such a thing is still possible; otherwise we _would_ have to contemplate potions, and getting the required ingredients would be such a pain."

"Thank you, Malfoy," Hermione snapped, "for your words of wisdom. I suppose we'll meet again once the next letter arrives. Until then, do stay out of my way."

Draco remained silent, but the threat he had declared to her at Flourish and Blotts echoed loudly in his eyes.

Hermione turned to leave, but stopped suddenly, pausing as a stray thought occurred to her.

Turning around suddenly, Hermione leaned forward again and planted her palms flat on the table, boldly making direct eye contact with the Slytherin while only a couple of inches from his face.

"You are going to do me a favor."

Draco raised his eyebrow, as though he found merely the idea of such a scenario to be entirely ridiculous. "I am?"

"Yes," Hermione affirmed, "and in return, I will offer you a favor as well. You will be able to ask anything of me, just as long as no one is physically or mentally harmed by your request."

"Indeed," Draco intoned, silver eyes calculating, "and what is it that you ask of me?"

"Watch over Ginny."

The Slytherin looked back at her, no sign of recognition on his face. "Ginny?"

"Ginevra Weasley."

"Oh," Draco nodded, his face mockingly genial, "the Prewett girl. And why, pray tell, would she need protection, mudblood? Her blood is pure; she is accepted by the Slytherins."

"It's the Gryffindors I am worried about," Hermione said quietly, gazing blankly at one of the paintings that hung upon the library's vast walls. "They are brash, unthinking, and…prejudiced: a dangerous combination. They are not pleased with her sorting."

"And if it should come down to her brothers, that she requires protection from," Draco questioned in feigned boredom, gazing analytically at his nails, "should I interfere even then?"

Hermione restrained a wince, hating how Draco had gone straight to the core of her worries. While Fred and George were too light-hearted to not let go of the matter soon, and Percy would inevitably become too involved in his own affairs to mind much longer, Ron would be a complete different matter when he found out.

"Yes," Hermione answered gruffly, "even then. Especially then."

Hot-tempered, irrational, often cruel Ron, with his unreasonable grudges. Hermione had no doubt that this could spiral very quickly into a nightmare. At least Ginny would have support from her parents, Hermione thought gratefully, as she suspected that both loved their daughter too much to ever shun her.

Draco eyed her sharply, before finally answering. "Very well. I will collect that favor later. Now, leave, mudblood."

"Gladly," she returned, and then she left, stalking down the to the Gryffindor common rooms.

* * *

"Hermione!" she heard a familiar voice cry. As soon as she passed through the Fat Lady's portrait, Hermione was engulfed in a painful hug by Harry, while Ron stood back with a strained smile on his face.

"Harry! Ron!" Hermione, clutching them both in quick hugs, "Where the hell were you?"

Ron looked at her strangely. "Did you just…swear?"

"Shut up, Ronald," Hermione scolded angrily, "I have been going insane with worry for the both of you! You told me you would meet me before we got on the train. And then, when I got on the train, I couldn't find you! Where were you?"

Harry looked at her nervously, rubbing one of his bony elbows. "The entrance to the platform didn't allow us to get through."

There was a pause. Then: "That's the most pathetic lie I have ever heard in my life."

"We're telling the truth!" Ron exclaimed, glaring at her.

"It's highly improbable," Hermione muttered, "No witch or wizard is powerful enough to stop that barrier without creating a complex system of runes; that's hardly unnoticeable. And even then, the barrier undoubtedly has defenses against such attacks."

"Hermione," Harry said earnestly, green eyes heartbreakingly sincere, "I know it doesn't make sense—even Snape and Dumbledore don't believe us—but I promise you, I would never lie about something like this. Unless someone messed with our heads or something, _I swear it happened_."

Hermione analyzed both boys with an uncompromising gaze, before finally sighing. "Fine, against all logic and reason, I believe you. But if you weren't able to take the train, how exactly did you get here?"

Once again, Harry and Ron looked at each other in hesitation. "We took…the flying car."

Hermione gaped at them. "What?"

"We took the flying car to Hogwarts," Ron listed quickly, "crashed into the Whomping Willow, got my wand snapped in two, got caught by Snape, were almost expelled, but now we are here: safe, unharmed, and not expelled. So everything is really alright."

"Really…alright?" Hermione stated slowly, eyes flickering dangerously.

"In any case," Harry cut in hastily, "How did the sorting ceremony go?"

"Yeah," Ron added, gaze wandering as though in search for something. "Where's Ginny? I didn't get to congratulate her."

"Er, Ron," Hermione said, her anger draining away suddenly to be replaced by apprehension. "Ginny isn't in Gryffindor."

"B-but," Ron stuttered after a long pause, "where else could she be? If not in Gryffindor—"

"Slytherin," Hermione concluded quietly.

There was a deathly silence, in which Ron's face first went frighteningly pale, and then alarmingly red.

"WHAT!?" he roared. "There must be a mistake! Ravenclaw, I can accept, even Hufflepuff, with some difficulty. But _Slytherin_? _Ginny_?"

Harry had become sickly pale as well, his green eyes comically wide; however, unlike his brash friend, he remained curiously silent.

"There's nothing wrong with being in Slytherin," Hermione responded swiftly in her no-nonsense tone, "And Ginny is quite cunning and talented; it's really not that much of a surprise that she was sorted there."

But Ron's face had already contorted itself into a nasty snarl, his usually light blue eyes dark and thunderous. "Slytherins are all scum, Hermione! Twisted….sniveling…cowards…How could Ginny have—Why would she be—_When did she get so wrong_?"

"RON!" a voice shouted furiously. The fierce reprimand had already been on Hermione's lips, but she was surprised to see that the cry had not come from her, but from Harry.

"How could you?" Harry yelled, his face desperate as though the entire world was shattering right before him. "She's your _sister. Family. _Slytherin or not, how could you call your sister any of those things? You _know _her. Ginny isn't like that."

"She's a Slytherin," Ron sneered, "I clearly know nothing of who she really is. She was probably hiding her true self, trying to trick us all—"

"Shut up," Hermione cut in, her temper inevitably getting the better of her. "You're being utterly ridiculous, and just _stupid_. So just _shut up_. I was going to be sorted into Slytherin as well, for my ambition, talent, and logic mentality. Ginny and I are most certainly _not_ twisted, sniveling scum."

"What?" Ron gasped for the second time that day, looking utterly horrified.

"I pleaded the sorting hat to send me to another house, any other house," Hermione explained emotionlessly, "I was so afraid of my potential being hindered in Slytherin, because of my heritage…and it no doubt would have been…but in retrospect, I believe that I should have been stronger and allowed myself to go there still, despite the obstacles. I was a coward, and ironically, I was sorted into Gryffindor for it. The sorting hat thought that my motive was rather cunning, however."—and here, Hermione allowed herself to smirk—"It termed me a snake in lion's skin."

Ron took a step back, momentarily stunned by the sheer aura of deadliness that radiated off his former best friend. But he quickly recovered himself, and painted another snarl across his red face.

"So," Hermione added firmly, eyes blazing as she drilled her eyes into Ron, "if you are going to ostracize Ginny for being sorted into Slytherin, you'll have to shun me as well, because I did something a hundred times worse. I _lied_ to you about it...about who I am."

Ron's face turned even redder, and he hissed nastily, "I thought you were a friend, Hermione. But now I know I was right at the very beginning; you _are_ a bloody nightmare. I hope I get to see when all your friends—the ones you've lied and tricked—see the truth of who you are and turn their backs on you, just like I am now."

Hermione tried and failed to prevent the wince that followed, and fiercely attempted to deny the telling sting in her eyes. Ron—careless, oblivious Ron—had always been unusually adept at cutting where it hurt. She had carried that wound for so long—that fear of driving off her friends when they truly got to know her—and though it had been suppressed and buried under recent joy, it now rose to the fore as though summoned by Ron's cruel words.

If she was being strictly truthful, she had always suspected that she and Ron would have a falling out sooner or later. Ron's entire attitude was simply too abrasive for her. The one thing that had bonded them together had been Harry. But even that. she suspected, had been destroyed now.

Tears streamed down Hermione's face and she quickly wiped them away, shocked at their existence. Draco had never made her cry, despite his numerous more prejudiced taunts and subsequent hexes and curses. Yes, he insulted her heritage and perhaps attempted to point out flaws in her character, but those had always been rather ineffective. Insulting what he found to be fault in her, had always been tantamount to insulting himself.

But Ron knew Hermione, knew her flaws on a level such that he could sneer at them and criticize them, and thus the insults that would have been blindly disregarded if made by Draco now had the ability to draw her tears.

And it hurt. So very much.

Deciding that she would garner no help in her current surroundings—for Harry always sided with Ron in the end; they were not only best friends, but they had met each other first, before she had ever entered the equation, and that, she supposed, held some inconceivable deep meaning between the two of them—she decided to retreat, regroup, and fight another day, when she was able to detach herself from the situation and acknowledge that Ron and she would perhaps never be friends again.

Hermione decided that opening herself up to other people had only made her more vulnerable to attack.

However, as she began to turn away, she was stopped by a fervid grip on her wrist. When she turned to see who it was, deep, aggrieved green eyes looked back at her.

"I was almost sorted into Slytherin as well," Harry stated softly—almost shamefully—but loud enough for Ron to hear him quite clearly, "It said that I had talent…and a thirst to prove myself. And that Slytherin would lead me on the…on the path to—"

"—greatness," Hermione stated flatly for him, analyzing the red and golden walls in the common room. Suddenly, they seemed so alien.

Harry looked at her in shock, before swallowing deeply to finish what he was saying. "I…I was afraid that Slytherin would make me evil, so I asked to be sorted somewhere else…Silly, I know, but Hagrid was the first person I had met from the wizarding world, and he told me that there wasn't a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. And then, Malfoy had told me he wanted to be in Slytherin…"

"And so you were understandably disenchanted with the house," Hermione supplied for him. Outwardly, she had calmed down, but inside, she was processing everything that had been revealed in the last couple of minutes. There were so many secrets between them, so many things they had purposefully hadn't told each other…for fear of being abandoned.

"But," Harry affirmed, "after knowing that Ginny was sorted into Slytherin and Hermione was going to go there as well, I have realized that I was being stupid. The house itself isn't inherently wicked or cruel. Hermione and I are proof of that. Our first choice was Slytherin, but we were able to fit in Gryffindor, which means that just because we might be cunning and ambitious, that doesn't mean we aren't also brave and honorable.

"'Slytherin, the ambitious and cunning, ridiculed for what they are not'," Hermione echoed distantly, "Perhaps the reason why Slytherins are so stereotypically hostile and sneaky is because they can't be anything else. Wizarding society only leaves them that mold to fill, and thus they are forced to play the 'villains'. It _does_ bring a certain Shakespearean quote to mind: 'all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players'."

Ron gaped, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly multiple times. "Both of you…you were going to _Slytherin_? But Harry, you're the _Boy-Who-Lived_. The one who defeated You-Know-Who! How could you…_How could you be_—"

"Evil?" Hermione cut in dryly, "Did you not hear a word of what he said? Did that all just go in one ear and out the other?"

"Shut up, Granger!" Ron shouted, and Hermione blinked slightly in shock at hearing her surname.

"I…I can't even look at the two of you right now," Ron spat out, before stalking off to the boy's dorms, leaving Harry and Hermione behind.

Harry's hold on Hermione's arm trembled. Brows furrowed, she turned to him in concern and asked, "Are you alright?"

"I…I don't think so," Harry said, his expression tortured, "He was my…my very first friend."

"Go to him," Hermione said quietly, expression stony, "go to him and apologize now and you'll be able to salvage your friendship."

Harry looked at her, hope dawning on his face, "You can too! And then everything can go back to n—"

"Oh, it's too late for me," Hermione said, smiling humorlessly, "There wasn't much pulling us together anyways. I can manage by myself; I'm used to it."

"I…I can't," Harry said, looking conflicted, "I can't leave you alone."

"Yes," Hermione said coldly, and she was being brutally honest, "Yes, you can. And you know it too. I am appreciative of the fact that you stood up for what you believed was right, but both you and I know how much you value Ron's friendship. You can survive without me, but not without him. Not without the Weasleys. Go to him."

Harry looked hesitant, his expression heartbreakingly young despite all that he had been through. Then again, perhaps that was what had made him look so young.

"Hermione…" he said pleadingly, but Hermione didn't know what he was begging for. "Please…"

"Go!" Hermione shouted, and with one reluctant glance back, he ran up the stairs and away from her.

Rubbing her eyes tiredly as she climbed up the stairs to the girl's dorms, Hermione wondered how what should have been a wonderful day had gone so terrible wrong.

That night, she cried herself to sleep.

**Hello again, folks. So...a little depressing. But don't worry, things will pick up in the next chapter! Please share all opinions, criticisms, and compliments by reviewing ;) madstoryteller999**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Hermione sat quietly at the corner of the Gryffindor table, stirring her cold porridge. She was hungry, starving, but she couldn't bring herself to eat. It was hard to eat in such a hostile, unwelcoming atmosphere.

It seemed that Ron had told everyone what she had said yesterday, and now they were all glaring at her, with the notable exception of Harry. He was looking uncomfortably in the other direction. It appeared that he and Ron had made up, and now he had to ignore her in order to maintain that fragile friendship.

Face emotionless, she eyed the three foot gap all around her. They avoided her like the plague.

What a wonderful year this was turning out to be.

A dropping of owl pellets on the top of one fifth year's head signaled the arrival of the mail. Hermione neatly avoided getting hit in the head by her copy of the Daily Prophet by dodging to the side, reaching out to pet her owl affectionately as it landed gracefully. A sudden cutting gaze burned her, causing her to lift her head. From across the hall, she saw Draco lift up another crisply white envelope, waving it tauntingly at her.

Hermione acknowledged it with a sneer, before turning to look at the daily prophet. The front cover featured—as Lockhart had promised—a picture of him and Harry. Lockhart beamed brightly, flashing his renowned white teeth at the camera with the air of a model, while Harry grimaced and turned away from the flashing lights.

"_Errol!_" Hermione heard Ron cry further along the table. Despite her conviction to ignore him, curiosity led her to watch as a bedraggled owl crashed into the goblet of pumpkin juice, a large red envelope clutched in its crooked claws.

"Oh no," Ron cried weakly, "she sent me a howler."

"You should open it," Neville suggested timidly, his expression fearful as he stared at the dreaded envelope, "My gran sent me one and I didn't open it….it was _horrible_."

Ron's outstretched hand shakily grasped the letter from Errol's claws, and opened it crudely with the knife he had been using to cut his toast. A loud bang momentarily deafened the ears of everyone in the great hall, as with a series of sparks, the Howler floated into the air and released its message:

"_RONALD WEASLEY! HOW DARE YOU STEAL THAT CAR! I WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY'D EXPELLED YOU….YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE!_

_"RECEIVING THE LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, AND WITH ARTHUR FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK—I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME! WE DIDN'T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, YOU AND HARRY COULD BOTH HAVE DIED! WE ARE ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED BY YOUR BEHAVIOR! ONE MORE STEP OUT OF LINE AND I'LL DRAG YOU HOME MYSELF!_

_"Oh, and Ginny dear. Although we didn't expect you to be in Slytherin, we fully support your sorting and send our love. We are surprised, yes, but proud, and know you will do well wherever you are,"_— Ron's frightened look quickly became a full-fledged scowl as he turned to send his sister a dirty look—"_And Harry, do come home to visit for Christmas. Hermione too, darling,"_—Ron's expression darkened—"_we would enjoy seeing you again for the holidays!"_

Then, with a loud pop, the letter burst into flames and settled into ash, directly on top of Ron's toast. After a second of silence, the majority of the school burst into laughter, delighting in Ron's fall from grace. Hermione brought a slender hand to her mouth, to stifle the smile that was about to arise. As if notified about the action, Ron's gaze snapped to her and he glared viciously.

The situation suddenly not as funny anymore, Hermione decided that her appetite was entirely lost, packed her bag, and left the Great Hall.

* * *

Morning classes had gone by rather quickly, Hermione noted, as she perused _Voyages with Vampires _once more with a scornful expression on her face. It hurt to do it, but Harry and Ron were discussing quidditch in the courtyard only a few meters away and she needed something to distract herself. Unfortunately, her next class was Defense against the Dark Arts, so Lockhart's books were the only ones in her bag.

Hermione felt a presence come up behind her, and adjusted herself accordingly on the stone steps. Turning around, she was greeted with the sight of Draco leaning against one of the stone pillars.

"Looking a little down Granger," Draco commented mockingly, as he analyzed how her former best friends were clearly ignoring her. "I wonder if Potter and Weasley have anything to do with it."

"And you're looking rather happy despite being under the control of the school board of governors, aren't you Malfoy?" Hermione retorted with a sneer, "Forced to follow their every whim and fancy…that must hurt your pureblood pride terribly."

"Clearly not as much as whatever it is that is hurting you now," Draco cut back smoothly, though his face was oddly blank, "Those two must be truly lacking in brains if they have decided to dump you. I doubt they'll last the year."

Hermione paused, taken aback. "Are you trying…to make me feel _better_?"

"It hurts me to see you in pain," Draco stated earnestly, his sneering and smirking aristocratic façade curiously absent.

"Really?" Hermione stated with one eyebrow raised.

After a few seconds, Draco finally let a smirk slip out from under his innocent expression "…when I am not the one causing it."

Although the words were cruel, and Draco had no doubt intended to use them to harm her, Hermione ended up laughing. Draco looked on in derision as she seemingly lost all semblance of sanity.

How ironic, that it was _he_ who had managed to comfort her after being abandoned by her best and only friends. His comment wasn't even that funny. She had no idea why she had found it so amusing. Perhaps she was suffering from hysteria? Perhaps that was why she was now releasing unusually high-pitched giggles.

Draco glared at her, though his rigid control over his magic signified that the fury was only superficial. "Honestly, mudblood, you just might be the singularly most annoying, infuriating, and nonsensical entity I have ever had the displeasure of meeting."

"Glad to be of service, Malfoy," Hermione replied dryly, finally calming down. She shoved Lockhart's book away and resumed to put a serious expression on her face. "I saw that another letter arrived."

"It's why I'm here," Draco stated coolly, reaching within his bag to pull out the envelope. He bit his thumb to release blood, not even glancing around to look for anyone glancing their way.

Hermione glanced at him disbelief, before reaching out curiously with her magic. Within seconds, she detected an advanced charm that automatically deflected people's attention away. Satisfied, she bit her own thumb and placed the dripping blood on the envelope. She might not have faith in Draco's character, but she had no doubts concerning his abilities.

As before, the envelope was quickly consumed by flames, revealing another crisp white length of parchment:

_Dear Ms. Granger and Mr. Malfoy,_

Claudius Ptolemy will arrive at Hogwarts today shortly after four o'clock in the afternoon. You will meet him for your first apprentice class at half past four—do not be late—at a room on the seventh floor on the left corridor, across from a tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy. The entrance to the room will appear and allow you to enter after you have transmitted your thoughts about its contents: Claudius Ptolemy, apprenticeship class. We expect great things from this apprenticeship; do not disappoint us.

_Regards,_

_Nathaniel Phosphor _

_Head of Hogwarts School Board of Governors_

Hermione drew back in confusion. "Is this letter instructing us to _think _about 'Claudius Ptolemy, apprenticeship class' in order to make the door mysteriously appear?"

"I think," Draco said, eyebrows raised, "that he's referring to the infamous Room of Requirement."

"What Room of Requirement?" Hermione exclaimed, "I have never heard of it!"

"You wouldn't find it in Hogwarts a History, mudblood," Draco sneered, "Information that sensitive can only be found in private collections."

"Most notably the Malfoy collection," Hermione guessed wryly.

"Black collection, actually," Draco corrected. "In any case, I am sure that you have a suitable disguise prepared for this afternoon."

"I have the required charms gathered," Hermione stated slowly, "And I know how to transfigure my uniform, so I'll be fine."

"Gryffindor uniform?" Draco asked. When she nodded, he added, "Make it Slytherin. A Malfoy could never be seen affiliating himself with a _Gryffindor_."

"Heaven forbid," Hermione murmured, but she nodded agreeably. One more layer of defense couldn't hurt. After all, the Gryffindors had recently taken to watching her as a vulture watches its prey.

"See you then, mudblood," Draco leered, before jumping off the steps and landing in a crouch. Hermione gave him a mock salute, and proceeded to watch as he moved to Harry and Ron, both of whom were talking with one of the Gryffindor first years.

"_Signed photos? _You're giving out _signed photos_, Potter?" he hollered, a broad smirk on his face.

As soon as Draco's voice echoed across the courtyard, the Slytherins present gathered around him, following their unofficial leader and sent their own sneers at the two boys.

"Everyone line up!" Draco roared, "Harry Potter's handing out signed photos!"

The Slytherins laughed uproariously, and Harry stepped forward with a dark scowl on his face. "I am not! Shut up, Malfoy!"

The first year, Colin if Hermione recalled correctly, shuddered but stepped forward bravely in defense of his idol. "Leave him alone! You're just jealous!"

Draco scoffed at the word. "_Jealous_?Please. What is there to be a jealous of? His oh-so-attractive scar? His horrifying lack of intelligence? His _idiocy_?"

Draco turned back subtly to look at Hermione, making sure that both Harry and Ron saw the action. It seemed that he too, knew how to cut where it hurt, as Harry seemed to pale and crumple in on himself while Ron turned a furious red, surging in anger.

"Be careful, Weasley," Draco crooned, "You don't want to start trouble or Mommy'll have to come to school and drag you out herself. One more step out of line, didn't she say?"

Pansy let out a shriek of laughter, leaning forward to rest one hand possessively on Draco's shoulder. "I think Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter. It'd probably be worth more money than his father has ever owned."

Despite their falling out, Hermione noted that she felt a pang of something when she saw the infuriated and wounded look on Ron's face. He immediately whipped out his spell-o-taped wand and yelled threateningly, "Eat slugs!"

He prepared to shoot the spell, but Hermione quickly intervened, tossing her book bag on the steps and wandlessly disarming Ron before he could shoot a spell and most probably harm himself. Ron sputtered wordlessly and Harry looked grateful, but she ignored both of them in favor of facing Draco.

"Enough," she stated coldly, her wand balancing delicately in her hold, "You've had your twisted fun. Now leave."

"We don't need your help, _Granger!_" Ron spat, turning furious blue eyes to her. But Hermione ignored him once more, continuing to stand defensively in front of the two of them.

Draco's politely mocking face suddenly became malicious, a bloodthirsty expression donning itself upon his face as he leaned forward. "How pathetic, Granger. They abandon you, and yet you still trail after them like a beaten dog after its abusive master."

Hermione bared her teeth, fury coursing through her at the insult. "_Beaten dog_? Although I am sure you no doubt have extensive experience in such matters, I assure you, you have named me incorrectly. I am no one's dog. Not theirs, and certainly not yours. You may consider yourself a master, but you _will _bow down to me."

An excited wild grin spread across Draco's face as he pulled out his wand with a lightning quick gesture. "Are you finally challenging me to a duel, mudblood?"

Hermione noted that several onlookers gasped in rage at the derogatory moniker (although Draco had called her 'mudblood' countless times, never had he done so openly and in front of so many people). Adrenaline coursing through her veins, she pulled out her own wand and bent her knees in preparation for what surely was going to be one of the greatest duels Hogwarts had ever seen from two of its students.

That is, until a certain blonde, pretentious wizard walked foolishly through their line of fire and interrupted them with a beaming smile and a toss of his gleaming locks.

"Now, now," Gilderoy Lockhart stated complacently, arms sweeping within their turquoise silk encasements, "What's all this? And who is handing out signed photos?"

Hermione rolled her neck with a light groan, a strange sense of disappointment within her. Looking at Draco from under her lashes, she saw him glare at Lockhart with a frightening amount of withheld anger, as if the pompous wizard had taken away the last meal he was ever to eat.

Harry opened his mouth to explain what had occurred, but was cut off when the new Defense against the Dark Arts professor violently swung one of his voluminously robed arms around the back of his neck, nearly choking him. "I shouldn't have bothered to ask! Harry, Harry, we meet yet again."

The Slytherins smirked at the tortured grimace on Harry's face, but Hermione's gaze was locked on Draco's figure, watching as he slowly melted back into the crowd, a stormy expression on his face. Silver eyes met her gaze for one long moment, before he finally disappeared.

Half watching the events occurring before her, Hermione observed through lazy slits as Lockhart then proceeded to force Harry into another picture with himself, this time shot by one enthusiastic Colin Creevey, before leading the rest of the second year Gryffindors and Slytherins to his classroom, all the while lecturing Harry for looking a "tad bigheaded" and "not being quite there yet" to warrant handing out signed photographs of himself.

Sighing tiredly when the Gryffindors all went to one side of the room and refused to let her near them, Hermione dragged herself to the Slytherin side of the room, ignoring the equally hostile and burning glances in favor of finally sitting down. Unfortunately, the last available seat—of course—was the one next to Draco.

Ignoring his burning gaze, she slipped her bag around the back of the chair haughtily, slowly pulled out the required materials—a total of all of Lockhart's books, a small roll of parchment for notes, a bottle of ink, and a black feathered quill—and sat down gracefully, crossing one leg over the other.

After the entire class was seated, including last minute stragglers who sniggered when they realized that they weren't in trouble, Lockhart dramatically picked up Neville's copy of _Travels with Trolls _and gestured to the winking and waving picture of himself on the back.

"Me," Lockhart proclaimed with a flourish, "Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and, as you have undoubtedly heard, five-time winner of _Witch Weekly's _Most-Charming-Smile Award—but I don't talk about that. I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by _smiling _at her!"

Girls swooned from both sides of the class room, but Draco and Hermione sneered as a collective unit.

"I am not beginning to see any other possibilities," Draco muttered sardonically from her left side. Hermione was surprised to find a small smile on her own face, though she turned away to hide it.

Lockhart frowned slightly at the lack of laughter from their section of the room, but quickly regrouped with a blinding smile. "As you have read all of my books over the summer, I thought I would begin today's class with a small quiz. Just a small check in to measure how much you comprehended and took in over the summer."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, slightly impressed. It wasn't altogether too bad of an idea. Was he going to test for spells that he had supposedly 'used' in his books? And then provide fictional scenarios to measure their knowledge of them?

As one of the quiz sheets came her way, Hermione looked down to observe the questions.

_What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color?_

_What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?_

_What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?_

Hermione scrolled down the parchment with disbelief. All the questions were ridiculous!

_54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?_

"Quickly," Lockhart chided, as she continued to gape at the parchment before her, "you have only thirty minutes to complete the sheet."

Hermione grimaced as she reluctantly picked up her quill. Given her encyclopedic memory, she remembered almost everything from the books, including the details that were required to answer these questions. And unfortunately, despite her severe disrespect for the teacher before her, Hermione's nature demanded that she do her best in whatever endeavor she undertook.

Thus, she bent her head with a dark scowl on her face and began answering the questions one by one, for the first time in her life, ashamed by the knowledge she held in her head.

Half an hour later, Lockhart collected their sheets and reviewed the answers with a horrified expression on his face. "Oh dear. Were most of you asleep while reading these fascinating books? Only two of you managed to do well: Ms. Granger and Mr. Malfoy. Ms. Granger remembered that my favorite color was lilac; I mention it in _Year with the Yeti._ And Mr. Malfoy recalled that my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own line of hair-products. Ms. Granger also remembered—from _Wanderings with Werewolves_— that my ideal birthday gift, mentioned distinctly in chapter twelve, is harmony between all magic and non-magic people! And as Mr. Malfoy states, in his opinion, my greatest achievement to date is managing to scam so many damn p—"

Lockhart abruptly cut himself off, and looked at the parchment in front of him in shock, his eyes widening in sheer disbelief. Hermione watched in satisfaction as he then moved to review her own answer to that particular question.

_In my opinion, Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date is managing to get hired by Hogwarts despite his astonishing lack of any degrees. In fact, I am shocked that he was able to do many of the things featured in his books without having received any form of higher learning beyond Hogwarts. Mr. Lockhart must be a very _special _wizard, indeed. _

"Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Granger," Lockhart sputtered, "your answers for question number three are…are _highly unacceptable! _And _incorrect_!"

"Are they?" Hermione questioned innocently, "If I recall correctly, the question stated 'in your opinion'. An opinion can't be incorrect, can it, professor?"

That question had been her saving grace, the only manner in which she had been able to redeem her pride. It appeared that Draco had taken the same path to express his rebellion. While Hermione had trained herself to outwardly respect authority and order (at the very least), she simply could not abide by someone who was clearly as unfit for it as Lockhart was.

"Well, yes," Lockhart gritted out through his brilliantly white teeth.

"Then there are no issues, professor," Draco asked coldly, analyzing his quill through narrow eyes.

Lockhart shivered when those silver eyes were turned to him, and nodded with a huge gulp. "Y-your father is Lucius Malfoy, isn't he? H-he voted me on along with the rest of the school board governors!"

"Actually," Draco drawled boredly, "my father was opposed to the hiring. But he was outnumbered by your…_fervid _fans. There was also the fact there was no one else available for the job."

Hermione took in this new piece of information with a slightly widened gaze. Perhaps that was why Dumbledore had allowed Lockhart to teach at Hogwarts.

The rest of the disenchanted students in the classroom snickered behind them.

"Ms. Granger, Mr. Malfoy," Lockhart finally yelled in triumph, "detention after dinner for _disrespecting _a teacher."

Hermione grimaced. That, unfortunately, he could do.

**Hello again, folks! Want to hear a funny story? I'm that annoying person who constantly bugs innocent readers to review. So please, please, review! I want to hear your thoughts, ideas, criticisms, etc. ;) madstoryteller999**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Grinning, Hermione placed her book bag carefully on the floor of first-floor girl's bathroom, and rolled up her sleeves in preparation for the complex wand work which was to follow. The restroom had been long abandoned, making it the perfect place for her preparation for the apprentice class. Indeed, the very reason for such abandonment—and the person whom she had to thank—was now peeking at her from over one of the stalls.

"You know that I can see you, right, Myrtle?" Hermione intoned conversationally.

The ghost in question released a small squeak of surprise, ducked behind the stall, before tentatively looking back out again. "Y-you know my name?"

"Of course," Hermione murmured as she pulled the list of spells she had written down. She sent the blushing girl a quick smile over her shoulder. "You're mentioned in Hogwarts a History as one of the esteemed ghosts of the 20th century."

"Esteemed," Myrtle repeated dreamily, coming out of the stall to float near her. "Most people just call me Moaning Myrtle."

"Buffoons," Hermione said dismissively, pulling out her wand from inside her sleeve.

"W-what exactly are you doing here?" Myrtle asked mournfully from behind her round glasses, "Usually, no one comes to visit poor, moaning Myrtle."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. I find you fine company," Hermione replied smoothly, a charming smile on her face, "I am working on a little project, here, Myrtle. For extra credit. But you can't tell anyone, okay? The Gryffindors are mad at me right now and I'm afraid they might sabotage my project. That's why I came here. For seclusion and safety. You'll help me, right?"

Hermione felt a little guilty for manipulating the young ghost like that, but she honestly did need the space, and it honestly did need to remain a secret. She couldn't exactly charm a ghost, in any case. Plus, most of what she had said _was _partially true, if grossly exaggerated.

"Of course!" Myrtle cried, "I'll guard the secret with my life…"

Hermione froze, unable to prevent the wince that followed when Myrtle let out a great wail of grief.

"_Life_?...I-I am dead! Oh! Poor, Myrtle! Poor, miserable, moaning, Myr—"

"Myrtle," Hermione hissed, taken aback by the drastic change in mood. "Someone could hear you!"

Myrtle agreeably allowed her grating wails to soften to hiccupping sobs that didn't echo quite as loudly. Hermione looked at the poor ghost, but after a glance at her watch, realized that she had to get to work fast.

Executing the charm at the top of the list in several variations, Hermione tailored her uniform until it matched that of a boy's. Then, with simply transfiguring, she changed the Gryffindor colors to the silver and emerald green of Slytherin.

Looking down at the list of spells again, she charmed her hair short, before proceeding through a multitude of colors, settling finally with black. Deciding that the distinctive frizz was a definite give away, she curled it.

Hermione paused to examine her reflection critically, before concluding that it was abnormal for a healthy twelve year old—almost thirteen year old—boy to be so lacking in height. She would be accused of malnutrition in no time. She looked at the required spell to fix the predicament hesitantly. This would require advanced transfiguration, and on herself, too. If she messed up, the consequences would be…harsh. She would miss the class, and would have to go to the infirmary, and explain there what had happened.

She paused, before taking a deep breath and steeling herself. Picking her wand up with determination, Hermione closed her eyes and visualized the desired effect, before chanting the complex spell, along with the elaborate flourishes and nuanced twitches. Feeling the wave of her magic brush warmly against her, she opened her eyes slowly and looked at her reflection.

"Y-you're a _boy_," Myrtle gasped, her hands. Her cheeks were a little red.

She eyed herself with a smirk. Perhaps, she didn't make a very pretty girl, but she definitely cut a figure as a boy. She was tall and skinny—without the athletic muscle that Draco, Harry and Ron had—but she made up for the lack of brawn with her striking features. Her amber eyes remained the same, but they were now framed by a cluster of black curls, drawing attention to her high cheek bones and narrow nose, giving her not only a distinctly aristocratic look, but also the impression of being foreign. Hermione supposed that she could possibly even manage to pass off as an Italian pureblood, despite her pale skin.

"That's right, Myrtle," Hermione replied, turning to smile at her. "That's the goal of my project."

"But," Myrtle said, a slight look of disillusionment on her face. "you still _sound _like a girl."

Hermione's eyes flew wide open in shock. "Thank you, I had forgotten!"

She pulled out the list and waved her wand delicately over her throat, chanting under her breath. After feeling the slight tingling sensation, she turned to ask Myrtle, "How about now?"

Her voice had deepened, into that middle range of adolescent boys, not quite a man, but not the high-pitched voice a child either.

"Perfect," Myrtle sighed, eyelashes fluttering. Hermione wondered if she should remind the ghost that she _was_ in fact female, before shrugging her shoulders indifferently. What harm could it do?

"I'll see you later, Myrtle," Hermione said, swinging her book bag over shoulder—which was considerably higher up than it had before—and adjusting her tie to loosen it a little. She gave a farewell salute, before exiting the bathroom and proceeding to the numerous flights of stairs located at the end of the corridor.

It took an embarrassing long amount of time for her to climb the following six floors, and by the time she reached the top, she was forced to pause, panting harshly. After a short minute—a quick glance at her watch notified her that she only had three minutes left—she immediately resumed down the dark halls of the seventh floor, in search for the elusive Barnabas the Barmy.

Strangely, she saw Draco before she saw the painting, The artfully tousled pale blonde hair glowed warmly in the dim light, and she allowed her footsteps to slow, her eyes finally falling upon the tapestry.

"Well," Draco murmured, looking straight at her instead of down at her as he typically did, "you certainly clean up well."

"I do, don't I?" Hermione smirked, enjoying the low quality of her voice. She fancied that it made her sound more intimidating.

"Your name?" Draco questioned, silver eyes cool though they glinted with the reflection of the writhing flames.

"Laertes Granger."

"Laertes?"

Hermione shrugged, acknowledging that it was an unusual name. "My parents are fond of a muggle poet called Shakespeare. They told me that that was what they would have named me if I had been a boy."

"How sentimental," Draco murmured mockingly, a pale eyebrow raised.

"Let's go in, shall we?" Hermione retorted, raising her wrist watch pointedly. She contemplated shoving Draco to the side if he disagreed, but was forced to acknowledge that though they were now the same height, he still had much more muscle than her. It would not be a fight she would win.

"By all means," Draco replied coolly, gesturing for her to do the honors. Hoping that she didn't make a fool of herself, she closed her eyes and thought '_Claudius Ptolemy, Apprenticeship Class'_ as instructed. When she opened her eyes, she saw a large ornate door being formed where there previously had only been stone wall.

"Ladies first," Hermione leered, stepping to the side. Draco raised one eyebrow challengingly at her, but seemed to decide that it was a matter that they could pick up later.

"Mudblood," Draco whispered as he brushed past her to open the door, "both you and I know that there are _no _ladies present right now."

Hermione fought the scowl that yearned to form itself across her face, and the magic that thirsted to burst out and exact vengeance against the petty slight. But she dismissed her anger with a roll of the eyes. Because that was exactly what it was: petty. And responding to his insult would only be pettier.

And she wasn't a petty person.

Following shortly behind him, Hermione entered what appeared to be a large ballroom, with huge crystalline chandeliers hanging from arched ceilings. Gazing up in unrestrained wonder, Hermione admired the thousands of Sistine Chapel worthy frescoes spanning across the ceiling.

"Shut your gaping mouth, mudblood," Draco muttered, "You're making a fool of yourself in front of our teacher."

Hermione's mouth immediately shut with a snap, and she followed Draco's gaze to the center of the ballroom, where a tall man surveyed them through narrowed eyes. He was lazily reclining in what appeared to be an exquisitely carved throne. In front of him—looking comically out of place—were two normal wooden desks, much like the ones in their regular classes.

"I suppose that is where we take our seats," Hermione murmured, eyebrows raised. She found herself somewhat amused by the bizarre set up.

"Indeed," Draco replied softly. They moved their way to center of the ballroom and sat down at the designated location. Much like she would in any class, Hermione reached in her book bag to pull out a bottle of ink and a quill, but was stopped almost immediately.

"You won't be needing that," a deep voice intoned. Hermione glanced up to see the mysterious professor's attention fixed solely on her. Holding his gaze for a moment longer, she bowed her head finally and placed the two items away.

"Your name, boy?" the tall man rasped sharply. Now that she was closer, Hermione saw that the man wasn't merely tall, but frighteningly so. Hermione had no doubt that she would have been embarrassingly dwarfed if she had been in her regular form.

"Granger, sir," Hermione replied coolly, "Laertes Granger."

"Laertes," the stranger stated wryly, examining her with dark eyes, "is that a reference to the _Odyssey_ or _Hamlet_?"

"_Hamlet_, professor," Hermione answered with a dry smile, "my father has an obsessive literary appreciation for Shakespeare's tragedies. He found Laertes a most compelling figure."

"And you?" Ptolemy demanded, glancing at Draco.

"Draco Malfoy," the blonde offered emotionlessly, the perfect mask on his face.

"Pureblood," Ptolemy sneered in disgust, eyeing Draco as if he would rather hit him than teach him anything.

Draco raised an eyebrow, looking amused rather than offended. "Well, I believe that's the the first time I've ever received _that_ reaction."

"Well, Draco," Hermione said airily. "Times do change." She appreciated the slight widening of the eyes she received when Draco heard his first name on her lips. But what else was she supposed to call him? They were in the same house, after all. Perhaps Slytherins weren't as overly friendly as Gryffindors?

"You aren't a pureblood." Ptolemy stated. It wasn't a question.

"Half blood," Hermione replied smoothly. A muggleborn in Slytherin would have been big news, and Ptolemy would be suspicious when he heard nothing about it. But half bloods? There were plenty in Slytherin, though they often kept the information quiet and to themselves.

"Well, what shall we do on our first day of class," the cloaked man contemplated. He rose from the throne and Hermione took the time to evaluate him. She had already established that he was tall, but she had missed the numerous vicious looking scars that decorated his person, one of the most notable carving itself right across his left cheek and stopping just beneath the curve of his eye.

"Ah," he murmured, rubbing his hands together. The look in his dark eyes edged towards gleefully sadistic. "How about a test of your abilities?"

"A test," Draco repeated slowly, but Hermione saw the hint of a smirk curving along his lips. "And how exactly would this 'test' be conducted?"

Ptolemy raised his eyebrows. "You will fight each other, naturally. In doing so, I will assess your individual abilities, and you will assess each others. Unlike conventional mentors, I will not stand for you two wasting my time by foolishly vying for so-called higher standing in this apprenticeship. I will expect you to learn as a pair; where one lacks, the other will compensate. I shall fashion you into two, intricately honed weapons; double swords, if you would."

"Individually ineffective without the other. It seems that the school board of governors is fixated on making us their loyal lackeys," Hermione commented darkly, sending a meaningful look Draco's way. She then turned her attention back to Ptolemy. "Excuse me, professor, if I am being presumptuous, but why exactly are you doing this?"

"Why am I teaching two annoying brats at a school for hormonal teenagers when I could be doing so many other more illuminating things, you mean?" their mentor drawled, a leer on his face. "Money."

"Money?" Draco repeated incredulously. His silver eyes viewed their mentor sharply and managed to convey the impression that he found him greatly lacking.

"_Money_," Ptolemy sneered, "is valuable in all parts of the world, from the deserts of Arabia to the lush jungles of Rio de Janeiro. I, unfortunately, happen to be in sore lack of it at the moment. Hence, the change of scenery."

Draco's eyes narrowed dangerously at the sneer, but Hermione quickly released her magic and allowed it to crackle warningly along his skin. Ptolemy appeared to not take notice.

"Well, get on with it, won't you? You're wasting my precious time." Ptolemy drawled, "You hiding skirts under those robes, you dandies?"

The taunt hit a little too close to home, and in the entirely wrong way. Hermione felt her eyes fly wide open—just for a moment—with rage, before she dulled her expression back to complacency once more.

"There's nothing wrong with being female, professor," Hermione said frigidly, crossing her arms as menacingly as she could across her chest. Surprisingly, the immensely taller figure before her wasn't affected at all.

"_Frailty, thy name is woman_," Ptolemy quoted dismissively. "You _are_ familiar with Shakespeare, aren't you? They might be alright in bed, but they have no other use when they're off their backs. Completely useless, the lot of them. You'll learn that soon, boy."

Hermione felt her body tense in preparation to lunge forward, but was halted by Draco's magic, slipping coolly around her arms.

"I'm beginning to see his 'mysterious aversion for those of the female gender'," Draco murmured with a smirk, silver eyes mocking her, "Though it appears his aversion applies only to certain aspects of life. Nevertheless, he isn't your opponent right now, Granger. I am. You're mine, now."

Hermione sniffed, before resuming to take off her heavy cloak in short, sharp movements. Seeing that Draco was doing the same from the corner of her eye, she then loosened her tie and rolled up her sleeves. It appeared that the duel that had been interrupted before would commence now.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock," Ptolemy called out with a gleeful grin on his face, pointing to the large clock embedded in one of the ballroom's walls. He draped himself across the throne, both legs hanging over one arm rest.

Trying desperately to ignore the adrenaline racing through her veins and the excitement that caused her heart to beat insanely fast, Hermione pulled out her wand and crouched into position, her wand hand outstretched with the other positioned behind her.

With a flourish and a smirk, Draco aligned himself into position as well. He aimed his wand from behind his head, and let the other hand stretch forward, as though reaching for her. On any other second year, this position would have been useless; but Hermione knew that Draco could do wandless magic, just as well as she could, and thus prepared herself to duel with both hands as well.

"Oh dear," Ptolemy tutted in his raspy voice, "not even bowing to each other. How blatantly uncivilized."

"I am many things, _Professor _Ptolemy," Draco stated coolly, his expression unaffected. But there was something violent brewing in his eyes, and Hermione was hyper aware of the way his seemingly depthless magic began to stir, yawning like an awakening dragon. "However, I sincerely doubt that civilized is one of them."

Then, without warning, he struck, his wandless hand releasing a bolt of pure iridescent gold, casting light upon the savage smile on his face—the smile that he had finally allowed himself to unmask. As if by instinct, Hermione's body immediately twisted out of the way, while the other reached out to send her own offensive spell. Draco dismissed it with a delicate flick of his wrist, a wide, vicious grin on his face.

"That's all you've got, Granger!?" Draco mocked, silver eyes wild, "What _impressive _magic!"

Hermione growled in response, allowing her own magic to be released from its self-imposed restraints. "Magic!" she shrieked—though it came out more as a hoarse yell due to her voice change—"I'll show you magic!"

Bending inwards, she expelled a towering wave of sheer, raw power, chanting in ancient Egyptian in order to bend the magic into a large king cobra of writhing blue flames. Instead of the pathetic fearful expression she hoped to see, however, Draco's face became even more exhilarated.

"Hassan Ramses' _divine serpent _spell," he declared, silver eyes dancing wickedly, "originating from the early 10th century B.C.E. I wonder how you got your hands on such knowledge, Granger. Been peeking in the restricted section?"

Sweeping his arms in long elaborate gestures, he then flung them backwards, and Hermione watched as the complacent air around him seemed to take shape as wind, forming two large wings that spanned the breadth of the ballroom's area. Following his command, the wind—as though an invisible phoenix—took flight to battle the king cobra.

The two forces collided with incredible force, creating an explosion. Raising one arm, Hermione quickly constructed a shield to prevent herself from getting injured. As soon as the fire cleared, however, she began dueling immediately, dodging and weaving complex spells in an attempt to both attack as well as defend.

They circled each other like competing predators, and Hermione took the chance to analyze him in contrast to herself, as she had been instructed to do. As she had predicted, Draco had much better stamina than she did—the only reason she had lasted so long was purely due to adrenaline. But she moved quicker than he did, because of that lack of strength; while Draco relied on sheer physical prowess to hold back spells with his shields, Hermione was lighter on her feet and avoided them altogether.

Hermione was distracted from her ruthless dissection of her opponent and herself, however, when Draco began using his wand hand to inscribe a large rune into the floor. Hermione wasn't able to recognize the rune, but guessed that it was publically considered part of the Dark Arts (hence why she hadn't seen it) when Draco added a drop of blood to fuel the powerful enchantment.

With narrowed amber eyes, she watched as the rune acted as the base for the formation of a silvery dragon made of mist—almost like a Patronus except much, much larger. It wasn't a real dragon, but one made purely from magic.

And the dragon, instead of releasing flames, expelled bolts of pure lightning.

She hadn't known that, of course, until the first attack. Thankfully, though, Hermione's acute sensitivity to magic had spurred her into moving away from the bolt of lightning before it had ever neared her. Tiny shrapnels of marble had cut her face in the process, however, further angering her when she realized that Draco had been the first to draw blood.

Eyeing the dragon before her, unlike anything she had ever seen before in her short time in the wizarding world, Hermione contemplated what to do. The unfair, unfortunate truth of the matter, was that Hermione's knowledge of magic was restricted to the Hogwarts library. She couldn't exactly access books on blood magic and how to deal with it. Light magic, certainly, wasn't going to combat this (she was guessing that a simple stunning spell—which had been instructed in the seventh year text books to be the best offensive spell—wasn't going to hold much against Draco's dragon); whether she liked it or not, Hermione had to acknowledge that all the spells classified as "light" were largely benign…hence their name.

But then, in a sudden flash of memory, she recalled purchasing one book from when she had accidentally stumbled into Knockturn Alley. It had been only one book, and purchased from a rather shady looking book seller—during the few precious minutes in which she had been separated from her parents—but the cover had been embedded with rubies and the knowledge within had been priceless, holding the glorious temptation of what only something forbidden could offer.

If Hermione remembered correctly, the spell she wanted to use would require not chanting, but actual singing, and in Greek. And it could definitely be used against Draco's summoned beast. The dragon released another roar then, interrupting her thoughts.

By the time the lightning bolts reached, though, Hermione had already crossed to the other side of the room, her voice rising in song while her wand hand inscribed the required characters into the floor. A circle formed around her, and within seconds, a fully grown Chimera stood in front of her, completely corporeal. Breathing flames, the Chimera released one mighty roar and leapt into battle, lunging at the neck of the dragon. Similar to the wizards who had summoned them, the two mythical beasts circled each other, before finally meeting violently in the middle. And just as the wind phoenix had collided with the fire serpent earlier, the following collision acted as the catalyst for another explosion as well.

Hermione raised another shield to protect herself, and was gratified when Draco raised his a second too late, catching a sliver of glass from one of the falling chandeliers across his flawless cheek bone. As blood dripped down that normally untouchable face, Hermione was pretty sure that she laughed. Loudly too, no doubt giving the impression of being clinically insane.

But she couldn't help it. Dueling with Draco was so…exhilarating. No restrictions, no facades, no worries. She could harm without regret. She could be utterly herself, let go of all her restraints, because she knew that she could never kill Draco, just as he could never kill her; not for lack of trying, of course, merely that they would always end in stalemate, just as they were now. The exquisite freedom was emboldening, and she embraced it like a lover.

But then Draco decided to use the Killing curse.

The ghastly green curse lit the entire room and cast it into an unnatural gloom. Hermione watched with uncharacteristically shocked eyes as the green bolt neared her, drawing infinitely closer with each infinite second. Granted, the previous spells had the capability of killing her as well, but to use _Avada Kedavra_? A spell whose _only _purpose was to kill? Well, that just pissed her off.

Hermione side-stepped the killing curse in a blur, and used the same motion to carry herself forward, bolting towards Draco. Draco bent his knees, preparing for an oncoming spell…Which was why he was shocked when Hermione came closer than a spell required and punched him in the face.

The blow wasn't quite hard enough to knock him off his feet, or even to cause him to stumble, but his head jerked to the side, blood dripping from the side of his mouth. He turned his head back slowly, silver eyes blazing and his mouth twisted into a horrible snarl, only to meet amber eyes verging on gold that were equally as furious. Magic gathered tangibly around them, creating a thick crackling atmosphere filled with dangerous energy.

Both prepared to attack each other once again, even more viciously than before, when they were interrupted by their new mentor. Blinking, Hermione turned to look at Ptolemy, a little ashamed that she had completely forgotten about his presence.

Ptolemy clapped slowly, examining the two of them with dark eyes. "Well, you two certainly went at it like cats and dogs. Granted, I have seen many men fight viciously with far less motivation to do so, but not _nearly_ as viciously as the two of you. The hatred between the two of you is clearly enough to…kill."

Hermione had to control herself from rolling her eyes. What had made _that _so obvious? The killing curse?

"That is unacceptable." Ptolemy stated bluntly. Both teenagers blinked at him shock. "You will work together in the future, as _partners._ You cannot be partners if you hate each other and constantly plot to kill each other. Fix it."

"What do you suggest, professor," Hermione question sarcastically, "that we kiss and make up? Let bygones be bygones?"

"I don't care _how_ you do it, as long as it gets done," their ever helpful mentor offered with a smirk, "Though, I do suggest that you learn to respect each other. You might think that respecting each other's abilities is enough, but it isn't. Now, on to your individual abilities."

Draco sent a distasteful glare at Hermione, before stepping forward for his evaluation.

"Malfoy," Ptolemy declared, "your knowledge of magic, particularly of the Dark Arts, is…_diverse_ as I expected. But that is the only advantage you held over Mr. Granger in this duel. As an individual flaw, you rely too much on your physical strength. Rather than avoiding spells altogether, you construct shields and stand your ground, wasting strength and energy. However, since neither seem to be an issue for you (you curiously appear to have an endless storage of both), I suppose you may learn to adapt that to your personal fighting style and use it further to your own advantage. In any case, Mr. Granger is surprisingly light-footed and will be able to compensate for you. However, your greatest flaw, as I see it at this moment, is your unwillingness to—how shall I put it?—_get dirty_. No, don't look at me like that, I do not mean _magically—_I have no doubt that you would sell your own soul to the devil if it guaranteed you what you desired—I meant physically. As I recall, Mr. Granger managed to land a hit on you. Had he been stronger, he could have knocked you out and it would have been his win. I doubt that you have ever been attacked physically in your life, nor have you attacked anyone physically, but it is an asset you will require if you intend to advance in this apprenticeship."

"You wish," Draco stated stonily, silver eyes blazing still, "for me to learn how to _grapple _like a depraved _muggle_?"

"Exactly," Ptolemy replied with a broad, infuriating smile, "Glad we understand each other. Now, Granger."

Hermione stepped forward, swallowing shakily. What if he had seen something? Seen that she was a girl? What if she was dismissed, right here, right in front of Draco? How would she ever bear the sh—

"You're most clearly a half-blood," Ptolemy began slowly, "your knowledge of the Dark Arts—while that Chimera piece was admittedly on par with Malfoy's astrapí̱ drákos—is marginal at best, without the backing of a pureblood's centuries worth of priceless knowledge. While I have stated previously that the two of you will compensate for each other, this is one aspect which I cannot allow for you to remain ignorant in. The ministry approves of 'light' magic because it's harmless. If you intend to become a force to reckon with, you will most certainly have to delve into the Dark Arts. Is that understood?"

Hermione didn't hesitate before nodding. She had realized quite quickly this year that—publically—Hogwarts was forced to abide by the Ministry's laws, even if its school board apparently approved of other methods. Methods which actually obtained results.

"You have twelve years of knowledge to make up for, Granger, in order to catch up to Malfoy. I will lend you some of my personal books," their mentor continued boredly, "have them finished by class tomorrow. As for your personal flaws…Simply put, Granger, you're weak. Pathetically so. While you're surprisingly quick, your physical strength and stamina are deplorable, and you will have to work on both. I suspect the only reason you lasted so long was due to adrenaline. That being said, however, your magical strength, like Malfoy's, is…satisfactory, and that punch at the end…You get into street fights often, Mr. Granger?"

Hermione shifted a little uncomfortably, before raising her head defiantly. "Only over the summers. The kids in my neighborhood don't exactly…_like _me."

"That explains the quick feet," Ptolemy answered with a smirk. "You generally dodge instead of hitting back, I suppose, but I would bet that that wasn't the first punch you've ever thrown. Isn't that right?"

"That would be correct, sir." Hermione replied. She _did _dodge more than she hit, because the boys who had liked to bully her and beat her up had always been so much larger than her. If she hit one, she ended up with a bruised hand and the other five jumping her. She hadn't possessed the luxury of endurance training. It had been surviving that had mattered the most.

"Well, we're done for today." their mentor announced, "Get out of here. Prepare for training for tomorrow. Oh, and bring some pain-relief potions. You'll need them."

"That sounds delightful," Draco muttered, a sneer on his face. Hermione couldn't help but grimace in agreement.

"Oh," Hermione remembered, just before she reached the door, "when will I get your books?"

Ptolemy waved his hand dismissively. "I'll send them to Madame Pince at the library, as an anonymous delivery. You can pick them up in ten minutes. Discretion is necessary, you see? The school board wants to keep everything hush hush. I doubt even Dumbledore knows about this."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, impressed.

"Adieu," Ptolemy sang in his raspy voice, and then he shoved them out the door.

Hermione straightened with a huff, smoothing down her uniform before sending Draco a pointed look.

"What a lunatic," Draco muttered, eyes narrowed, "he wants us to be _friends_? The man's off his bloody rocker."

"I completely agree."

**So...the punch comes one year earlier. Hermione and Draco are told to be friends. And Ptolemy appears to be off his bloody rocker. Thoughts? ;) madstoryteller999**


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